


Sunday, Monday, Tuesday

by Once_More_With_Feeling



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Depression, Gen, Healing, Hopefully not entirely plotless drivel, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-19 12:47:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling/pseuds/Once_More_With_Feeling
Summary: After Thomas' suicide attempt, we didn't get to see much of what he did, or what happened, that helped him to eventually feel better. It's unlikely he got any professional therapy, but it seems to me that something had to happen that helped him to change. This is my take on what happened--the work he did with himself, and the interactions he had with the people who care about him--that helped him to eventually decide to go on living, and in particular in this story, how he got back to work.I'll add more character and relationship tags as I go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a bit apprehensive about posting this one. I'm not sure there's much of a plot; this is just the story of three days of Thomas' life, and how he got back to work soon after attempting to take his own life. That being said, here's a little background/timeline of my head canon:
> 
> Thomas tried to kill himself on Thursday, June 18, 1925. I think it was a Thursday, because the next day was referred to as Friday, when Lord and Lady Grantham went for tea at Mrs. Patmore's "house of ill repute." Friday is also the day that Henry Talbot showed up, and proposed officially to Lady Mary, saying they should get married "next Saturday." I'm assuming he didn't mean the next day, so in my head they got married on Saturday, June 27, 1925. I've written a couple of stories about what happened to Thomas on the day of the wedding; several events in my previous stories will be referenced in this one. You don't have to read those for this to make sense, but I don't mind if you do. 
> 
> This story takes place Sunday, June 28, through Tuesday, June 30, and will also likely have a little epilogue. 
> 
> Finally, I just want to say that I've been feeling down lately, too, and for some reason, writing about how Thomas sorted through his thoughts and feelings during a difficult time has helped me to feel a little better. And who knows; maybe some of you out there will like this. Please let me know if you do.

Thomas spends all day on Sunday in his room.

He is sick of these four walls, but after wearing himself out so thoroughly yesterday walking into the village for Lady Mary’s wedding, that he had had to beg a ride home in His Lordship’s car, and then had had to rest by the fire for eight hours before mustering the energy to walk up the stairs, he is determined to save his strength by lying flat on his back today.

And it’s not as though he has work to do. Part of the problem in the first place is that an under-butler is not needed here— _he_ is not needed—which of course is part of why he had thought last week that doing away with himself was the best course of action. He can vaguely see the flaw in this philosophy now, but that doesn’t mean he feels much better. 

That isn’t quite true, of course. He feels better sometimes. When they sit with him, and allow him space to be sad, he feels alright. And he had slept alone last night, for the first time, just to prove to all of them that he could do it—that they had no more cause to worry. He hadn’t tried to off himself in the middle of the night, which is no small victory, but now here he is, with himself in his room, wondering if he will ever feel alright again when he is alone. Since he is sure he will be mostly alone for the foreseeable future, this is a problem.

He is still actively engaged in supination upon his bed when Phyllis enters the room, carrying a tray. He thinks it must be lunch. He tries to remember if he has had breakfast, but he can’t.

She places the tray on his bureau, approaches his bed, and kneels beside him. She strokes his face with her warm hand, and asks, “How are you feeling?”

He rolls onto his side to face her. “Useless,” he mutters. He had wanted it to sound grating, had actually wanted to irritate her a bit, but her touch softens his misdirected anger, again. He closes his eyes, powerless to stop the comfort she brings.

“You’re not useless,” she says softly, as his rough edges give way to smoothness, once more.

He looks up at her. “I’m so tired,” he says.

“I know,” she says earnestly, and he feels relief in knowing that all she is doing is agreeing with him, not judging or worrying. That it’s alright for him to feel exhausted in the middle of the day, after having done nothing all morning. “I’ve brought you some lunch,” she adds.

He looks at her somewhat skeptically. “What is it?” he asks.

“Hmm. Beef and barley soup, some baked parsnips, and…” she turns to look at the tray. “Bread and milk,” she finishes.

“ _Baked_ parsnips?” he repeats. Because clearly, he has every right to second guess the culinary style of the food items that have been brought to him in bed for the last week.

She gives him a small smile. “Mrs. Patmore thought you might be getting tired of the boiled ones.”

“She’s right,” he answers.

She ruffles his hair. “Come on, now. Sit up,” she says. He notes with a small amount of shame that she doesn’t ask him to sit up, but tells him. It works, though. He sighs, and musters the energy to sit upright in his bed. She arranges his pillows behind him, then pulls his covers straight up to his waist, before picking up his tray and placing it over his lap.

He looks down at the food before him, and is suddenly hit with a wave of sadness. Why are they being so good to him? Bringing him meals, constantly checking on him, letting him sleep all day if it’s what he needs to do? Then there are all the things Phyllis did last week, when he could barely conjure the will to keep breathing—forget about turning over in bed, or feeding himself. He closes his eyes. He wants to throw the tray across the room, scream at Phyllis to leave him alone. But what has doing that sort of thing ever gotten him? _Don’t,_ he thinks to himself. He takes a few choppy breaths.

“Will you—” he begins. “Will you stay a little while?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

He doesn’t open his eyes yet, but he knows that she is smiling. “Of course,” she says, as though she is simply accepting a friendly invitation to lunch. “I think Mrs. Patmore may have added some molasses to those parsnips, and I’d love to try a bite.”

***

As Phyllis steps off the last stair of the servants’ staircase, Mrs. Hughes approaches her.

“How is Mr. Barrow doing?” she asks. “I believe you’re the only one of us who’s seen him today.”

Miss Baxter frowns a little, and considers. “He’s… tired,” she says, as it’s the first thing that comes to her mind. More than just painfully sad, and frightfully pale, Thomas seems to her to be unbearably tired.

Mrs. Hughes sighs. “Well, that’s not new,” she says. Miss Baxter only nods. “I don’t mean to be impatient with him,” she continues. “Lord knows he needs a rest after what he’s been through. But he’s got to come back to work sometime. As much for himself as for the good of the house.”

Miss Baxter couldn’t agree more. But will Thomas ever see that? “I wish there were some way we could help him to get started,” she says. “If he only had something to do, maybe the rest will… fall into place,” she says.

Mrs. Hughes looks down a moment, then away from Miss Baxter, thinking. Her gaze lands on the hall boy, near the back door, and she smiles just a little.


	2. Chapter 2

The knock comes at six o’clock, just as it has every day for the better part of fifteen years. When it does, Thomas knows just what it is, and what it means, but he cannot imagine _why_ it occurs. The hall boy hasn’t knocked on his door for the last eleven days. Not since… the day he hurt himself. After that, Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson must have told him to skip the under-butler’s door, to let him rest. And yet here it is. Six o’clock. Time to get up.

Thomas sits up abruptly, and swings his legs over the edge of his bed, which makes him dizzy for a moment. When the vertigo passes, he gets up, and walks to his door. He opens it a crack, and listens. “Six o’clock,” the boy’s young voice says again, probably just outside Andy’s door.

He closes his door again. It’s time for Andy to get up. And because it is six o’clock, he is sure the scullery maid is knocking on the doors of Mrs. Patmore, and Daisy, and Miss Baxter’s rooms, too. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, and the Bateses, are probably leaving their cottages and walking to the big house right now. Everyone is getting up, Thomas included.

He is _included._

Thomas turns around and faces his room. He feels a little movement in his face; he wouldn’t call it a smile, but his lips bend a little. He decides to get dressed.

***

He had not planned to work today, and does not know that there is any actual work for him to do, so he doesn’t put on his livery. He dresses himself in his brown trousers, and a white shirt, and a waistcoat instead. He spends several minutes trying to decide if he should wear a tie. In the end, he picks up the tie, and carries it in his hand down to the washroom. He has another, more pressing concern to address, and addressing it will depend on timing.

When he gets to the bathroom, he is relieved to see Andy is still there. Slightly ashamed, but relieved. Andy is just finishing shaving, and is wiping his face with a towel. Thomas stands awkwardly in the doorway, and waits for Andy to notice him. When he does, he is not very successful in hiding his surprise. “Mr. Barrow!” he nearly shouts. “You’re—” He changes his mind. “Good morning,” he says instead.

Thomas nods, and looks away. “Good morning,” he chokes out. He knows what he needs to say, but… “Andy, would you…” if he doesn’t say something intelligible, Andy will leave, and then what?

 _Please let him understand,_ Thomas prays silently to himself, then clears his throat. He holds up his shaving kit, and his tie, and forces himself to look at the man in front of him. “Would you… could you help me, please?”

Andy nods. “Of course, Mr. Barrow. Of course I will.” He nods to the chair next to the sink. “Come and sit down, and we’ll get you sorted.”

***

Andy shaves Thomas’ face and neck carefully and efficiently; it almost seems as though the younger man has done this before. Part of Thomas wants to compliment him, and tell him he would have made a fine valet, but he can’t quite manage it.

When they’ve finished, Thomas buttons up his shirt and collar, but needs help with his tie. Andy does that for him, too, without flinching.

“Why don’t you come down to my room for a minute?” he asks. “I’ll finish getting dressed, and then we can go down together.”

Thomas nods, and follows Andy back down the corridor. He stands in Andy’s room and tries not to watch him finish dressing. Luckily, Andy is double quick, and in minutes it’s time for them to walk down the stairs.

When they reach the bottommost floor of the house, Andy continues on to the kitchen. But Thomas stands at the bottom of the stairs, and listens for a moment. There are sounds from the kitchen, of course; breakfast preparations for both up and downstairs are well underway. There are a few soft sounds from the servants’ hall, too, though. A chair scrapes lightly across the stone floor. A tea cup is placed in its saucer. There are people in there, too. Thomas closes his eyes, and says his second silent prayer that morning. _Please don’t let it be Mr. Carson. Not yet._

It is not. When he enters the doorway of the hall, he sees Phyllis, in her place near the head of the table. She looks up at him, casually at first, then her face… lights up. She jumps from her chair, sending it screeching across the floor, and rushes over to him. He is sure for one second that she is going to embrace him (which would not be so abnormal these days, apart from the fact that they are outside the privacy of his room now), but she catches herself.

“Th—Mr. Barrow,” she says, catching her familiarity again. “I’m so happy to see you.” She can’t seem to completely stop herself from touching him, though, and the tips of her fingers graze his elbow. “Come and sit by me,” she says, suddenly a bit shy.

He nods and follows her. He walks around to the other side of the long table, and is about to sit in his old place, when the doorway is filled again, this time by Mr. Carson. Mrs. Hughes, who had been walking just behind him, nearly crashes into her husband as he stops short in the threshold.

_Shit._

“Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Carson says. Thomas waits for him to perhaps add more, but he does not.

“Good morning, Mr. Carson,” Thomas finally answers, his voice hoarse again. He waits a few moments. Clearly Mr. Carson is not going to make this easy. “I… thought I would come down for breakfast today, if that’s alright,” Thomas finally manages.

“Of course it’s alright,” Mrs. Hughes says, stepping around her husband and into the room. “We’re so glad to have you.”

Mr. Carson gives something of a grunt, and for some reason, Thomas answers, “Thank you,” trying to raise his voice above a whisper. He is not entirely successful. Everyone else in the room breathes a bit of a sigh of relief, though, and breakfast commences.

Daisy does him the immense favor of not jumping when she sees him upon bringing in a large plate of toast. She also places her hand lightly on his shoulder as she passes him, and whispers, “Welcome back,” with a tiny crooked smile. He smiles back, just a little.

Halfway through her porridge and tea, Phyllis turns to him, and he thinks she is going to ask him what in heaven’s name he plans on doing today. However, fortune, or God, or Lady Grantham’s stomach, smiles on him in that moment, and the bell on the board to their left calls Phyllis away. She gives him a small but encouraging smile before she leaves.

Soon the other bells are ringing, and everyone is off. Everyone except Thomas. No one calls him. No one needs him. He sits awkwardly in his place and tries to remember why he thought it was a good idea to get dressed and come down so early. What in God’s name is he going to do for the next eighteen hours?

He hears sounds from the kitchen again, and decides to get up and see what’s going on in there. Perhaps he can find a way to look busy.

He stands near the kitchen counter for a moment, and watches Daisy and Mrs. Patmore busy about. When the cook finally looks at him, he hears himself say, “Mrs. Patmore, do you have anything I might do for you?”

The two women appear as surprised as Thomas is at his words. Mrs. Patmore puts her hands on her hips, though, and considers. “Actually…” she begins. He raises his eyebrows. “All the jars on the counter need refilling.” She gestures to the baker’s rack to her right, where the jars of flour, sugar, coffee, salt, and other kitchen essentials are kept. “The sacks are in the pantry. Do you think you could help with that?”

Thomas nods. “I think so,” he says.

Mrs. Patmore comes around the counter now and speaks quietly to him. “Some of them weigh twenty pounds or more, though,” she whispers. “Can you manage?”

Thomas finds himself tugging his sleeves down just a bit at his wrists, and he can feel a blush creeping up in his cheeks. This is the woman who, last week, had spoon fed him chicken broth while Phyllis held him upright. And yet he is more ashamed in her presence now than he was then. He nods, and whispers again, “I think so.”

She releases him from her concerned look then, and he makes his escape to the pantry.

Luckily, Thomas finds that he can indeed lift a twenty-pound sack of flour now. And he finds his task to be surprisingly mollifying. Fill the jars with the right things. Clean up any spills. Meticulously. Arrange the jars perfectly on the counter top, one finger-width apart. When he is finished, he sighs, almost contentedly, and looks up to see Daisy watching him. He gives her a crooked little smile now, which she returns. She is finishing with the washing up after both breakfasts, and again he speaks without thinking.

“I could dry those for you if you want,” he says.

She blinks. “Alright,” she says, with a slight lift of her shoulders. He walks to the sink and picks up a kitchen towel, and the two of them work silently together. He finds this bit of work satisfying as well, but by the time he dries the last serving dish, he feels an ache coming on in his lower back and the soles of his feet. He hangs his towel on a bar to dry, and turns once again to Mrs. Patmore.

“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asks her.

She smiles at him. “That’s alright, love,” she says softly. “You look a little peaky. Why don’t you go sit down now, and we’ll bring you a cup of tea?”

Just like with Phyllis yesterday, he finds that his shame in that moment is no match for her kindness. For how long he has been wishing someone—anyone—would notice how miserable, and hurt, and alone he feels, and bring him a cup of tea. So he nods, and leaves the kitchen, grazing his fingertips lightly over tabletops and door jams as he goes, as if to check his balance.

He settles himself in his chair by the fire, and closes his eyes. Daisy brings him tea, saying, “Milk, no sugar?” He nods again, and drinks half the cup before closing his eyes once more.

When he opens them again, his cup is gone, and he has been covered with a jacket that must belong to Andy. Most of the servants are gathering around the long table, and Daisy and Mrs. Patmore are ferrying serving dishes in from the kitchen when Phyllis approaches him.

She places a hand on his shoulder, and says softly, “Let’s get you upstairs.”

He hasn’t even managed to stay upright until noon. He shakes his head, shakes her off, and stands. Andy's jacket nearly falls to the floor, so he hands it to Phyllis, not having anywhere else to put it. “I can do it,” he says, conscious of the looks everyone in the room is giving him.

“Thomas…” she starts.

“I said I can do it,” he insists, and leaves her standing there with the discarded jacket in her hands. If he had the energy, he would stomp up the stairs, but a slow stagger is about all he can manage. On the fourth landing, he seriously considers lying down for a while and having a nap there, but the thought of how Mr. Carson—or worse, Miss Baxter—would react if they found him there urges him on.

When he finally reaches his room, he falls face down onto his bed, too tired to undress. With the last bit of energy he has, he shifts his feet slightly, so his shoes hang off the mattress, and won’t dirty his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes some time later, he is lying on his back, under the cover of the silk duvet that was mysteriously procured for him last week. His shoes have been removed, and are no doubt sitting neatly inside his wardrobe. His tie and collar are gone as well, and his breathing feels easy.

He turns his head slightly to the right, and sees Mrs. Hughes sitting in a chair next to him. She closes the book she is reading when he turns to her. The experience of waking up to find one of them watching over him is so routine now that he says nothing. He waits for her to say something.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

_God. This again._ He turns to face the ceiling again, and says, “I feel tired… and stupid, and useless.”

Mrs. Hughes clearly holds back a sigh. “Well then,” she says, a touch too brightly. “How fitting that I’ve come to talk to you about coming back to work.”

For some reason this surprises him. “What?” he grunts, turning to face her again. Had she missed the fact that he had fallen asleep sitting up, after performing a few menial tasks in the kitchen this morning? How will he ever get back to work?

He brings his hands to his chest, and grips the duvet that covers him. “I want to, Mrs. Hughes, but… I don’t see how I can.”

“Mrs. Patmore says you were quite a help to her, and to Daisy, in the kitchen this morning,” Mrs. Hughes offers.

He rolls his eyes. “Thus begins my illustrious career as a kitchen maid,” he says.

“Thomas,” she says, stopping him from saying more. Her use of his Christian name, and her warning tone, annoy him slightly, but underneath that he can feel his need to be mothered edging toward the surface. Even when she scolds him like a child, a part of him longs for more of her attentions. So he scowls.

She gives him just what he needs then, and reaches out to place her hand over his. “I know you get tired, love,” she says softly. “But you made it through the morning alright. So I thought perhaps you could come back and work half days at first.”  
  
Again he is surprised. “What?” he asks again, thoroughly confused. She sits back slightly, but doesn’t remove her hand from his.

“Really, Thomas, stop saying ‘what’ with your mouth hanging open.” She catches herself before continuing though, and they both smother a bit of a chuckle.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “What d’you mean, half days?” She smiles and looks at him expectantly. “You mean… like… when I have my half day?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “Like when you have your half day. But every day. For a time.”

“Oh,” he says. He thinks for a moment. Then he nods. “Alright. I think I can manage that. Just for a time, though.”

She smiles fully now. “Just for a time,” she agrees. She starts to rise from her chair, but he stops her.

“Wait,” he says. “What does Mr. Carson say about this?”

She waves him off slightly. “Oh, I haven’t told him yet,” she answers. “But he’ll say yes.” She rises from her chair, and leans down to give him a kiss. She brushes his hair with her hand for a moment, then straightens up, and heads toward his door. “Get some rest,” she says. “We’ll want to see you at dinner tonight.”

He nods one last time, then watches her leave, his door still open.

***

He skips tea that afternoon. And he intends to miss dinner as well; he knows if he doesn’t show up at half past nine, Phyllis will bring him a tray. Or someone will. He feels a little hungry, but he can wait. And he feels apprehensive about actually working tomorrow.

Maybe it’s a good thing that he got up and went down to breakfast this morning. Just a little dry run for the real thing. And tomorrow morning the only difference will be that he’ll wear his livery. Maybe that won’t be too much more for the other servants to gape at.

His stomach rumbles, and he remembers what Mrs. Hughes had said earlier.

_We’ll want to see you at dinner tonight._

He wonders if that was true, or if she was just being nice. Or maybe it’s both. Maybe she truly wants to be nice to him. But why would she? The likely answer shakes him a bit, and he decides to just get up already.

He finds his shoes exactly where he thought he would—in his wardrobe. He puts them on, then runs a comb through his hair. His tie and collar he leaves off; what would be the point? But he decides to add his brown jacket, just to keep warm.

No one faints when he enters the servants’ hall. Phyllis smiles up at him, beaming as though she is terribly proud of him, but he realizes in that moment that this is always how she looks at him. He takes his usual place between her and Mrs. Hughes. Dinner is brought in, and everyone begins eating.

A few minutes later, Mr. Carson speaks up. “Andrew,” he begins. “Would it be possible for you to come for the family’s luncheon tomorrow, in addition to their dinner?”

“Mr. Carson?” Andy asks, looking a little confused.

“I know you’ve got a lot of… business at the farm, but… Mr. Barrow is coming back to work tomorrow, and only for half days. I was hoping you’d be able to continue to help us during the day.”

Andy’s eyes flick from Mr. Carson to Thomas. “I—yes, Mr. Carson. I mean, I’m sure I can. I’ve been… I mean, yes,” he finally stammers.

Mr. Carson suppresses an eye roll at Andy’s stumbling, and says, “Very good. Thank you.”

Thomas can feel his face redden. He hadn’t thought his slow return to work would be announced at dinner. The thought of only working half days seems suddenly pathetic and embarrassing. What will the others think? That he is lazy, or weak? That he is somehow unaware that he is living on pity? He risks a look up from his plate to Anna and Mr. Bates, who sit across from him. Anna looks sympathetic for a moment, then looks away. Mr. Bates looks thoughtful.

As the silence becomes nearly deafening, Thomas suddenly feels a hand on his back. Phyllis. God, she can be so… soothing. Part of him hates her contact with him in that moment—or hates how much he needs it—but it just feels so God damned good. To have someone at his side, someone who understands how difficult all of this is. Someone who will _touch_ him, and in front of other people. He takes a deep breath, and leans back ever so slightly, asking her not to stop.

Finally, to everyone’s relief, Mrs. Hughes asks, “How did you get on at the school today, Mr. Molesley?”

***

After dinner, Thomas has a cigarette outside—the first he has had today, and the first he has had outside in nearly two weeks. He finds himself relishing the sound and feel of gravel under his feet, the quick pop of methane as he opens his lighter, and particularly the relief of the tension in his forehead with his first inhalation. He blows the smoke up to the sky, trying to make it last as long as he can. He smiles just a little.

He hears the crunch of gravel again, and turns to see Phyllis has followed him outside. Of course she has. She looks tentative, keeps her distance at first.

“Are you wanting to be alone?” she asks.

He considers. “No,” he says, with a shake of his head. “It’s alright. Come and sit by me,” he answers, repeating her words from that morning.

Her shoulders drop just a bit, and she walks toward him. She sits down on the bench beside him, a foot or so away at first. He gives her a little smile, and she scoots toward him. She says nothing, but looks at him with watery brown eyes, and for just a moment, he is able to remove himself from the situation entirely, and he can see all that she has been through in the last week and a half.

This woman has dragged her oldest friend from a bathtub filled with his own blood, put him to bed, and sat by his side, waiting for him to come back to life. She has fed him, bathed him, dressed and undressed him, tended his wounds, and rocked him to sleep. She has listened to his words, sat still with him in his silence, and never once asked for anything in return. She has unflinchingly touched him when no one else would, both in the privacy of his room and in the openness of the servants’ hall, and it occurs to him now that it is perhaps because of her quiet yet unyielding example that some of the others are now willing to do the same. She has loved him, and somehow in addition to that, she has shown the others that they ought to love him, too.

For the tiniest of moments, Thomas feels as though he might be the luckiest person in the world.

He puts an arm around her, pulls her close to him, and whispers, “Thank you.”

She surprises him by leaning into his chest, and letting out a strangled, shuddering cry. Normally when thanked, Phyllis says that thanks aren’t needed; she insists she has done nothing, or at least that whatever she’s done or given was an accident at best. But this time she shakes with sobs, and nods her head. He pulls her closer.

She looks up at him, with tears running down her face. He does the only thing he can think of, and offers her his burning cigarette. She swallows, takes the fag between her delicate second and third fingers, and brings it to her mouth. She takes an epic drag, and Thomas watches the end burn furiously, and disappear into a grey haze that floats upward into the night. She closes her eyes and lets the smoke escape her with painstaking slowness, relishing what is probably the only lungful of sweet nicotine she will enjoy in this decade. When she is entirely empty of smoke, she hands it back to him, and says quietly, “Thanks.”

He nods, puts the nub that is left of the cigarette to his own lips, and manages one more drag before dropping it to the gravel and grinding it out with the toe of his shoe. They sit in the twilight a few minutes more, each with an arm wrapped protectively around the other, until the back door opens, and they both look to their left.


	4. Chapter 4

Anna steps outside and walks toward them, a carefully practiced smile on her face.

“Miss Baxter?” she says.

Thomas and Phyllis both look at her, but neither of them lets go of the other, which of course they would have done, previously, had they been caught hugging by another member of staff. But of course, everything is different now.

Anna seems to understand this, and does not react to their close proximity. “Her Ladyship is calling,” she says, though, and Phyllis nods. “Would you like to go, or should I?”

Now Phyllis begins to pull away, but not before looking at Thomas’ face one more time. He gives her a small nod, and she stands. She wipes the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, and says, “No, it’s alright. I’ll go.” She walks toward the door, and only glances back once before going inside. For some reason, Anna remains where she is.

Thomas looks up at her, and sees that her face is filled with sadness. She has wrapped her arms around herself, as though she is cold, though the night is warm and tranquil. Her eyes shine more than they usually do, and he wonders if she is going to cry.

He tries to smile at her, but he can’t really. He sighs. “You don’t have to, Anna,” he says softly.

“What?” she answers. “What don’t I have to do?”

He shrugs, shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he says, unsure himself of what he’s getting at. He stands. “I’m going to bed,” he says.

She nods her head. “Alright.”

He steps around her, but stops when he is just past her. They stand nearly back to back now. “Does Mr. Bates know?” he whispers.

She pauses for a few seconds. “He does,” she answers.

He says nothing, and looks at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice a whisper now, too. “I just…”

“It’s alright,” he says, and he means it. He is not happy about Mr. Bates knowing what he did, and fully expects the man to use it against him at some point in the near future. But he is relieved to know that Anna had someone she could go to on that day, with her fear, or shock, or disgust. Or whatever it was she felt. She deserves that.

“Would you like me to go up with you?” Anna asks. “I’m not busy. I could help you get settled.”

“No, that’s alright. Don’t worry about me,” he says.

She seems unsure, but nods, and lets him go.

***

Thomas trudges inside, and up the stairs, relatively unnoticed. He makes it to his room, washes his face, and changes into his pajamas. He hangs his clothes neatly inside his wardrobe, and glances at his livery. He closes the door, though, not quite ready to think about putting it back on.

There is a knock at his door. Phyllis must have brought him some hot chocolate, or something. He sighs a little, and wonders if anyone is ever as kind to her as she is to him. He opens the door, and is more than a little surprised to see John Bates.

He steps back. He had thought John might seek him out, knowing what he has done. But he didn’t think it would be now. Is Mr. Bates angry because Thomas spoke to Anna earlier? Is he going to attack him again? Grab him and throw him against the wall? Thomas is sure that this time he does not have the strength to pretend that he is not afraid. In fact, he is suddenly very, very afraid. He backs further into his room, knowing there is no where for him to go. Maybe if he can just get a chair, or anything between them, he can defend himself…

He has reached the far wall of his room, and now he can’t get away. Should he yell? Call for help? Christ. How pathetic has he become? He can’t defend himself against a man with a limp?

Mr. Bates suddenly stops in the middle of the room, his face oddly calm.

“Leave me alone, Mr. Bates,” Thomas says. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want any more trouble. Just please—”

“Thomas,” Mr. Bates says, nearly a hiss.

He can’t help it. “It’s Mr. Barrow now,” flies out of his mouth. Shit. This is hardly the time for semantics.

Mr. Bates closes his eyes, and before he opens them again, he says, more softly this time, “Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas holds his hands together at his chest, tense. Terrified. “What?” he finally says.

Mr. Bates opens his eyes and answers, “I am not going to hurt you.”

“You’re—why not?” Thomas says in return.

Mr. Bates sighs slightly, and drops his shoulders. He looks Thomas in the eye, and says, “I am not going to hurt you. Because I believe you do not deserve to be hurt.”

Thomas lowers his hands a little. Is this true?

“Then… what do you want?”

Mr. Bates gathers himself up, and seems to stand a little taller. “Shall I set out your regalia for tomorrow?” he says.

What?

“What?” Thomas says, again. It occurs to him that this is exactly what Mrs. Hughes told him to stop saying, with his mouth hanging open. If only all the other people in this house would stop saying such ridiculous things.

Mr. Bates walks the few steps to Thomas’ wardrobe, opens it, and begins doing just as he said. “Here we are,” he says, as he pulls out each piece of Thomas’ livery, and lays them neatly over the back of his desk chair. He closes the wardrobe, then looks at Thomas once more. “I thought I would come up early tomorrow, and help you get dressed,” he says.

Perhaps Mr. Bates has lost his mind. In the last hour. He seemed fairly lucid at dinner.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” Thomas says. “And you’ve His Lordship to see to.”

Mr. Bates’ face changes a little. Is he smiling? “My life’s work is to dress and undress a man who is perfectly capable of doing so himself. Will you deny me the dignity of work?”

Thomas’ face changes, too. He furrows his brow, leans forward slightly, as though this might help him to understand what in the hell is going on right now. Mr. Bates does not speak further, so Thomas ventures, “I suppose not.”

“Good,” the other man says. “And it’s no trouble, really. His Lordship doesn’t get up nearly as early as we do.”

He turns and leaves then, walking down the corridor and toward the stairs. Thomas is sure he hears him whistling as he goes down, to join his wife.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning Thomas is awake well before six. Almost before the sun is up, which is saying something, this far North, in the middle of summer.

He sits on the edge of his unmade bed, his bare feet cold on the wood floor. He decides to have a cigarette.

The cigarette helps calm his nerves a bit, but he knows this is temporary. He ignores the hall boy’s knock at six o’clock, and focuses on smoking. His cigarette is still burning when Mr. Bates knocks a few minutes later.

Thomas does not get up. He knows if he stays where he is, John will just walk in. He is right.

Mr. Bates opens the door, and steps inside. He looks Thomas up and down, as though he is surveying damage, or trying to decide how best to go about cleaning up an inordinate mess. Thomas looks back at him.

“Good morning,” Mr. Bates says.

Thomas nods.

“Are you ready to get started?” Bates asks.

Thomas shakes his head a little, scratches his chin, and shrugs. “Alright,” he says. He stubs out his cigarette.

Mr. Bates walks a little further into the room, toward Thomas’ wash stand, but stops short at the foot of the bed. Clearly something has just occurred to him.

“Have you… been able to shave?” he asks.

Oh, God. Somehow Thomas had forgotten about this part. He supposes that maybe it’s best to get the most humiliating thing out of the way first, though. Then perhaps things can go up from there.

He looks down in shame, and shakes his head. “No,” he says, quietly.

To his surprise, Mr. Bates only nods. “Who has been helping you?” he asks.

“Miss Baxter, or Andy,” Thomas mumbles.

“I see.”

Silence. It was hard enough to ask Andy for help with shaving, and thankfully Phyllis had just done it, without either of them asking anything. Thomas is sure he cannot find it within him to ask John Bates for help.

“Come over here,” John says softly. He has walked to the far side of the bed, and stands at the wash stand now. Thomas gets up and does as he asks, but he cannot bring himself to look the man in the face.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Mr. Bates begins. He opens Thomas’ shaving kit, and takes out the razor. Thomas shudders a little. “I’ll stand right here. You shave yourself, and I’ll watch. If anything goes wrong, you’ll stop. And I’ll be right here.” Silence. “Alright?”

Thomas nods. He holds out his hand, and John places the razor in it. It is the first time he has touched a blade in twelve days. He turns it over in his hand, inspects its weight. He takes a deep breath. He can do this.

Mr. Bates leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his cane hung over one arm. Thomas sets the razor down momentarily, puts shaving cream on his face and neck, and rinses his hands. He finds his reflection in the tiny mirror he has hung on his wall, then takes the blade in his hand once more. He pauses before he puts it in contact with his skin. He feels the lightest of touches on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and puts the razor to his cheek. He pulls it downward in a smooth motion, as he has done a thousand times before. Then the touch on his shoulder is gone.

Each subsequent stroke of the blade is a little easier than the last. He moves a little faster with each stroke, and soon he is finished. Mr. Bates hands him a towel, and he wipes his face. He hands the towel back to Mr. Bates, who takes a corner of it, and uses it to tenderly dab at a place near Thomas’ left ear. “You missed a spot,” he says needlessly. Thomas nods and manages to look John in the eye for the briefest of seconds.

Now to get dressed.

He unbuttons and removes his pajama top, to reveal his vest underneath. Even in the heat of summer, Thomas still feels cold most of the time, and sleeps in layers. He unceremoniously raises his arm and sniffs his armpit. It doesn’t actually smell too very bad.

He shrugs and says, “It’s clean enough.”

Mr. Bates is thoroughly unfazed, and says, “Good.” He is ready with Thomas’ starched white shirt, and holds it open, so Thomas can shrug into it. Mr. Bates fastens all the buttons, quickly and efficiently. While John’s gaze is fixed on his task, Thomas takes a moment to study the man.

“Why are you doing this, Mr. Bates?” he asks softly, painfully aware of how vulnerable he must sound.

Bates does him the kindness of not looking up. He focuses on the button in his grip, and says, “You speak as though you think you’re undeserving of help.”

Thomas considers this as Bates finishes his shirt front. Having briefly been a valet, Thomas knows to raise his arms, one at a time, so Bates can fasten the cuffs of his sleeves. As Mr. Bates begins this next task, Thomas answers him.

“I thought I was undeserving of anything good. For a while there.”

Bates, still not looking up, furrows his brow somewhat. “ _Anything_ good?” he asks.

Thomas nods. “Anything,” he affirms. “Help, kindness… love. Anything.”

“And what do you think now?” John asks, moving to Thomas’ other cuff.

“Well,” Thomas says, busying himself with looking at the ceiling. “It appears that Miss Baxter loves me. And she hasn’t burst into flames yet.”

Bates does not crack a smile at this. He turns and picks up Thomas’ waist coat, and holds it up as well. Once it has been buttoned, too, he steps back, and Thomas sheds his pajama bottoms, then pulls on the black trousers of his livery. Mr. Bates waits patiently while Thomas tucks in his own shirt.

Bates kneels carefully and holds socks, and then shoes, for Thomas to step into. “And?” he finally says, as he ties up the laces. “What does that mean?”

Now it makes sense for Thomas to fix his gaze on the ceiling above them, as John stands again and begins to attach his collar to his shirt. Thomas feels his eyes begin to water. “I suppose it means… that maybe… I’m not entirely undeserving… of love.”

Though he continues to look up, he sees John flick his eyes to Thomas’ face for half a second.

“Good,” Bates says calmly. “Because you’re not. Undeserving, that is.”

Thomas swallows, a difficult task with his head tilted back. John picks up Thomas’ tie, and begins to fasten it around his neck.

“Who else loves you?” John asks.

Now Thomas cannot resist the urge to lower his face, and the two men look each other in the eye for the first time that morning. “I’m sorry?” Thomas says.

John clears his throat. “I said, who else loves you? Surely there are others.”

Thomas blinks his eyes once, very slowly. No one has ever asked him anything like this before. Are normal people—the ones who get to talk so openly about whom they love—expected to field questions like this on a daily basis?

Now that the subject is out in the open—as open as the privacy of his own room affords—Thomas actually considers this question. He thinks of all the people he has ever loved; his mum, though she is dead, and his sister, Margaret, though he hasn’t seen or spoken to her in years. He thinks of Phyllis, who has always been there for him, whether he saw it or not. He thinks of Philip. Of Jimmy.

But Mr. Bates’ question is not whom Thomas has loved, but who has loved him. And really, not _loved_ once, but _loves_ now. Who loves him, now?

“Sometimes Mrs. Hughes looks at me, and she smiles, like she’s so… pleased with me. And… it makes me think that she might love me. Sometimes.”

Mr. Bates straightens Thomas’ already perfect tie. “I think you’re right,” he answers. “Except for the ‘sometimes’ part.”

Thomas gives the smallest of smiles, the first time he has done so today. He wonders if he will shock Mr. Bates terribly if he continues.

“I think Andy might. As a _friend_. Only as a friend.” Thomas studies Mr. Bates’ face now, having lost his fear of looking the man in the eye. He continues to appear unfazed.

“I think you’re probably right about that, too,” he says. “You’ve been a good friend to Andy, helping him, and keeping his secrets, even when it meant you were harmed in the process. And Andy is a clever and thoughtful young man. He knows a good friend when he finds one.”

Thomas looks away now, and nods slightly. Now for the real shock.

John lifts Thomas’ black jacket off the desk chair, and holds it open. As Thomas puts his arms in the sleeves, he says, “I think Jimmy may have loved me.”

“Yes?” Mr. Bates says. Doesn’t anything shake this man?

Thomas nods again. “Yes,” he says with a firmness he didn’t know he possessed. “Not the way I love him. But in his way. He found a way to love me.”

Thomas turns around to face the valet now. Did he just say “I love him” aloud to another human being? He has never in his life spoken about a man like this to a third person—not even to Phyllis. He came close once, with Mrs. Hughes, back when Jimmy was trying to ruin him. But Mrs. Hughes had known enough then that he hadn’t had to say those three words out loud.

_I love him._ He has said the words, and now he stands tall in front of John Bates, of all people, having also proclaimed that—in some way—Jimmy loved and loves him back.

Mr. Bates uses the palms of his hands to brush away any lint from Thomas’ shoulders and arms. He straightens Thomas’ lapels, then steps back to admire his work. He smiles, and the look on his face is most surely one of pride. Mr. Bates leans on his cane, and tilts his head slightly. “I’m certain you’re right about that,” he says.

Thomas gives him a curt nod. He is certain, too, in that moment. The two men eye each other for another second or two, and simultaneously exhale something that both have been carrying for years.

Mr. Bates moves toward the door then, and opens it. Thomas steps through it, into the corridor. The valet follows him, and they walk together down the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

Thomas lands on the bottom step of the servants’ stairs feeling a bit more confident than he was the previous morning. It feels good to be back in uniform again. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the foot of the stairs, and almost smiles.

When he and Mr. Bates enter the servants’ hall, Anna is standing next to the fireplace, chatting with Daisy. When she sees the two men, her eyes light up, and Thomas assumes this is for Mr. Bates. But she says, “Good morning Mr. Barrow. You look very smart today.”

Now Thomas smiles fully. “Is that a compliment to me, or to your husband?” he asks.

“Both,” she says, a bit cheeky. She touches Thomas’ arm as he makes his way to his seat.

Daisy leaves the room and returns with a plate full of toast, followed by Mrs. Patmore with the tea. Only a few minutes into breakfast, a bell rings on the board. Mr. Carson turns around to see which it is.

“Heavens, that’s the dining room already,” he says, and makes to stand, sending all the other chairs in the room scraping back away from the table. But Thomas stands before anyone else can.

“I’ll go, Mr. Carson,” he says. He is bound to show his worth today. Or for half of today, at least.

Mr. Carson sits, and so everyone else does, too. “Alright, Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Carson says. “Thank you.”

Thomas exits the room swiftly, trying to ignore the silence that is surely caused by everyone present holding their breath. He hopes this reaction to his performing actual work does not last for the rest of his life.

He dashes up the stairs, and through the green baize door, and into the dining room. His movements are so quick, he has no time to anticipate which member of the family will be in the dining room so early, and what he or she might want. Perhaps he does this on purpose.

When he enters the dining room, he is therefore surprised to see Tom Branson standing at the side board, gazing out the enormous windows.

“Thank you, Mr. Carson,” Tom says as he turns around. “I’ll just have—” He stops short, his eyes wide. Both men stand a little straighter. “Barrow,” he says. “Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Tom rolls his eyes a little, still clearly bothered about being called ‘sir’ after all these years. Well, let him be bothered.

“I’m sorry to make trouble. I thought you were Carson. I only wanted to know if I could have a bit of coffee, and a morning bun.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas says.

“I’m heading out to the far side of the estate, you see, and—”

“It’s no trouble, sir,” Thomas interrupts. He turns to go. He is inches from a clean getaway, but Tom speaks again.

“Barrow,” he says. Duty forces to Thomas to stop. But he does not turn around.

“Is there something else, sir?” he asks, dreading what is coming.

“Yes,” Tom says softly. A little desperately. Thomas can feel him take a few steps toward him. Still he does not turn around. Tom waits a moment, then says, “I’m… sorry. I’m so sorry, for what you’ve been through. If there is anything we—if there is anything _I_ can do to help you, please tell me.”

“Certainly, sir,” Thomas says. He closes his eyes. There is silence, and he can feel Tom waiting for him to open up, to turn and face him. It seems strange in that moment that Tom Branson of all people does not understand that he cannot.

“I know you’re fond of Sybbie,” Tom says then. This is a surprise. “And I thank you for it.” This is downright shocking. Thomas turns his head, just a little to the right. Tom’s voice becomes a little choked. “It seems to me that the more love my little girl has, the better… And I know you were fond of Sybil.”

“Everyone was fond of Lady Sybil,” Thomas whispers.

“But she spoke very highly of you,” Tom answers evenly.

Now Thomas cannot resist. He turns fully to face him. “Did she really?” he asks. Is this something Tom has planned for days now, for the first time they spoke, to try to make him feel better? Or is it true? Everyone knows Thomas had respected—even adored—Lady Sybil. But is it possible she had really liked Thomas—for who he was, and not just because she was sweet, and kind, and everything good, to everyone?

“She did. Really,” Tom says earnestly.

Thomas nods, and exhales. “Thank you.” He does not say ‘sir.’ “Thank you for saying that.”

Mr. Branson nods, and Thomas steps into the servery, where he places a hand on the counter top to steady himself. He covers his eyes with his other hand. He is sure he is about to have a good cry, when Daisy bursts in, carrying a silver carafe of coffee.

“Oh, Thomas!” she says, out of breath. “I’m glad I—oh, dear. Are you alright?” she asks. She abandons the coffee on the counter top, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

He nods, trying to convince her that he is fine. She looks doubtful. “I knew it was Mr. Branson calling, and I tried to catch you. He likes his coffee early on the days he goes out… exploring.”

Thomas nods again, feeling shamefully out of the loop. “Is that new?” he asks.

Daisy bites the inside of her cheek. “Not really,” she says. They both smile a bit, and he takes a few deep breaths. She keeps her hand on his arm.

“He also wants a—” Daisy holds up a morning bun on a little plate. He huffs a little laugh. “Right,” he says. “You know what you’re about.” Daisy gives him a sheepish shrug.

Now he looks down and shakes his head. He has clearly not prepared himself for how the family will treat him now that he’s back to work. “Christ, if they’re all like that…” he mutters. He fights the urge to go and hide in his room for the next ten years.

Somehow without being present for his interaction with Mr. Branson, Daisy understands. She rubs his arm. “They will be at first,” she says softly. “But they’ll get used to you bein’ back. And so will you.” She gives him that crooked little smile he is beginning to love, and picks up the coffee. He takes it from her, and the pastry, too.

“Right,” he says with a sigh. “Best get on.”

***

Fortunately, the rest of the family are not quite so lyrical upon seeing Thomas back in the dining room for the first time. Lord Grantham gives him a grave nod on entering the room, and manages to sit down to his breakfast without speaking about love, or dearly departed members of the family, or asking Thomas if he can manage to lift the tea trays.

Lady Edith gives him a polite smile when she sees him, and Lady Mary—who has already seen Thomas in his pajamas and unable to lift his own head—is on her honeymoon, thanks be to God.

Thomas sees the family through their meal, and brings their breakfast things back down to the kitchen for washing when they are finished. He brings the silver items most in need of polishing from their cabinet to the servants’ hall, and sets to work on them. Polishing is quiet, satisfying work, though he finds himself oddly wishing he could fill some more jars in the kitchen.

He takes a short break when Mrs. Patmore brings him a cup of tea. She sets it down next to him, then places next to it a tiny pitcher of milk. “I thought you’d like to let it steep a bit, before you put your milk in,” she says kindly.

“Thank you,” he says.

She leans down toward him and says, as though it were a terrific secret, “I’m making some ginger biscuits this morning, for the upstairs tea. I’ll save you some, since I know you like them.”

Now he smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Patmore,” he says. “That would be lovely.”

Mrs. Patmore straightens up, looking pleased with herself. She puts her hands in the pockets of her apron. Thomas is not sure what to do.

“You know we have a new grocer,” she finally says.

Thomas sets his cup in its saucer. He looks up at her. “…Do we?” he asks, unsure why she has told him this.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Hm.” What is she doing?

“He does his own deliveries, but I’m not sure I like him. A Mr. Bruce.”

_Oh._

She is making conversation. Right.

“Well… you’d know if he was a bad egg, wouldn’t you? Just… give him a chance, and if it doesn’t work out, then… get our stuff from somewhere else.”

She tilts her head, and considers. “That seems fair,” she says slowly. “I suppose everyone deserves a chance,” she adds cheerily.

“I’m sure everyone does,” Thomas agrees. He nods to her as she leaves, and resumes polishing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For SippingPlotting (at least in part; you'll know which)

Thomas helps to serve the family’s luncheon, as is expected of him. This is the first time he sees Lady Grantham since returning to work, and she is just as kind, yet somehow more discreet, in her first reception of him than her husband was. Perhaps this is because at luncheon, Thomas is expected to hold platters for individual family members, bringing them into closer proximity, whereas at breakfast they serve themselves. Or maybe it’s just because Lady Grantham is more refined than her English earl of a husband.

She says nothing to him, really, that she wouldn’t any other day. But when he holds a dish of chicken Kiev for her, she takes a portion, and places the serving spoon back on the dish—though not before touching his wrist with the tips of her fingers, looking him in the eye, and saying, “Thank you, Barrow,” in a very pointed manner.

Thomas does not allow his blank expression to break, and says ever so softly, “You’re very welcome, milady.”

Once the family are fed, again, he and Mr. Carson silently clear the table, and sideboard, and bring everything down to the kitchen. He feels tired by now, and concentrates on not dropping the load he carries. When he reaches the kitchen, he sees a thin man with a thin mustache standing against the wall, holding his hat in his hands. He is clearly waiting for Mrs. Patmore to finish shouting about something or other, and looks as though he might like to disappear, as though the commotion in this kitchen is entirely too much for him. This must be the new grocer. And Thomas can see why Mrs. Patmore might not like him.

The cook continues to scurry about, not acknowledging the man’s presence, so he attempts to catch the attention of someone else. “Oh, Mrs. Hughes,” he says meekly as the housekeeper brushes past him.

“Yes?” she answers, with a bit of excessive politeness.

“Perhaps you can help,” he says. _Perhaps you can get me out of here,_ is clearly what he means. “I can’t seem to—that is, I only need to know how many eggs for next week. And Mrs. Patmore seems… busy.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, and leans on the countertop, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. Andy and Mr. Carson traipse past him, with trays of things to be washed. Daisy scoots back and forth from the sink to the stove, shouting to Mrs. Patmore, and trying both to manage the dirty things from upstairs, as well as whatever is cooking for downstairs. Phyllis arrives in the kitchen then, and sees Thomas’ heavy breathing, and how he leans on the kitchen island for support. She reaches for him, closes the distance between them, and he finds himself instinctively reaching back. She puts an arm around his waist, and says, “Come on,” leading him toward the stairs. “I think that’s it for today,” she adds softly.

As she leads him away, the commotion in the kitchen dies down a bit, and he hears Mrs. Hughes divulge, “Our Mr. Barrow has been ill.” She sounds uncomfortable, as though she knows the grocer neither wants nor deserves an explanation, but something resembling civility dictates that she give one anyway. “We’ve all been looking after him.”

Thomas does not turn around to see, but he is sure Mr. What’s-his-name decides to stop gawking, and just telephone later about the eggs.

***

Somehow, they make it up all the stairs, and into Thomas’ room. Phyllis makes quick and practiced work of stripping him down to his vest and trousers, and removing his shoes. She draws back his covers, and he collapses onto his bed. Once he is settled on his back, she swathes him in his blankets, including the blue silk, and sits down next to him for a moment. Though he can barely keep his eyes open, he feels a rather refreshing sense of accomplishment. “I did it,” he whispers.

She caresses his hair, and says softly, “You did. You came back to work. And you’ve done so well, dear one. So very well.” He nods his head, closes his eyes, and finds that though this is not what he is getting at, he agrees with her. She leans forward a bit and whispers, “You sleep now, and I’ll bring you some lunch in a bit.”

***

Oddly enough, it is not Phyllis bearing yet another tray of protein-rich nutrients that wakes him. Rather, it is a tiny, repeated tapping on his shoulder. Tap, tap, tap. A pause. Then tap, tap, tap, again.

“Hewwo, Mr. Bawwow,” says an equally tiny voice.

Thomas opens his eyes slightly, and is sure for a moment that he is still dreaming. Staring back at him are two wide, crystal blue eyes, in the trusting little face he knows so well.

“Master George?” Thomas mutters sleepily.

George smiles. “Wook,” he says. “I’ve bwought us a book.”

A book? Thomas sits up a little on his elbows, and rubs his eyes. “Oh… would you like me to read it to you?” he asks.

“No,” George says. “You’re not feewing well, so I’m going to wead it to you.”

Thomas recalls that George is not quite four years old, and most decidedly does not know how to read. But perhaps in this dream, he does. “Alright,” he says.

George waits a moment. “I have to sit next to you, so you can see the pictures,” he explains.

“Right,” Thomas naturally agrees. He scoots over, and moves his pillows so he can sit up a little. George climbs onto the bed, bringing his book with him. Thomas takes note of the title briefly; _My Book House._

“The one about the twain is the best,” he says, finding his place in the large volume. Thomas rubs his eyes again, finding he does actually want to see the pictures.

George commences “reading,” which entails describing in his own words the scene on each page. After a minute or two, Thomas leans back into his pile of pillows, and listens to the child’s voice, allowing it to lull him into a pleasant state of calm.

“…and the twain says, ‘I think I can, I think I can,’ and then she can! And she goes up the mountain, and down to the other side. And she gives so many pwesents to all the wittle childwen.” Suddenly George stops his narration. “I miss my mummy,” he says, quite suddenly.

Thomas sits up again. “I’m sure you do,” he answers. “But you know she misses you, too, and she’ll be back soon.”

George nods thoughtfully. “Where is your mummy?” he asks.

Thomas winces a little. “Well… she died, I’m afraid.”

George gasps. “Just like my daddy,” he says, and Thomas realizes the little boy is not so much traumatized by the thought of Thomas’ mother being dead, as he is pleased with the camaraderie this means that they share.

He nods slowly. “Yes, just like your daddy.”

George continues to look thoughtful. “When I miss my daddy, I can find someone else. Like you, or Donk, or Uncle Tom.” Another pause. “Do you have a donk?” he asks sincerely.

Thomas smiles. “No… but I’m sure I did when I was your age.”

“Hmm,” George says, and rests his head on Thomas’ shoulder. “But if you miss your mummy, you can find someone else, too,” he adds with a yawn.

Thomas puts an arm around him, leans back once more, and pulls him close. “I suppose I could, George.”

“Nanny says I have to have a nap.” He yawns again. “But I don’t want to…” He closes his eyes.

Thomas rests his cheek on George’s blonde head. “Perhaps just a little rest then,” he whispers, and feels himself sink into his soft bedding, the trusting warmth of George beside him reminding him that he is safe, too.

***

This time it is Phyllis who wakes him, the touch of her hand on his brow a familiar sensation. “Thomas,” she whispers. “Wake up now. Thomas?”

He starts a little, and opens his eyes. She makes an effort to smile.

“Everything is fine,” she begins. “It’s just that Nanny is beside herself. She didn’t know where Master George had gone, and… I just need to take him back to the nursery, before she loses her mind completely.” Phyllis gently lifts George from Thomas’ arms, careful not to wake him. When his head is resting on her shoulder, she continues, “I’ll just… take him back down now.”

Thomas nods, and rubs his eyes, confused. Why is George here? Were they really reading together? It had seemed like a dream—a wonderful, effortless dream, comforting beyond measure. Phyllis leaves the room, gently rubbing George’s back as she goes, and Thomas stays in his bed, speechless.

***

Once George is in his own bed, and Nanny has been given a strong cup of tea, Phyllis leaves the nursery, closing the door softly behind her. Thomas may have gone back to sleep after she left… but she should go and check on him. She doesn’t like to leave him unsettled.

***

Thomas is sitting up in his bed, George’s book still open in his lap. He stares at it, a worried look on his face. When she enters the room, he looks up and says, “Do they think I took him?”

Phyllis crosses the room and sits down next to him. She takes his hand in hers and says, “No, my love. No one thinks that.”

He isn’t quite ready to believe her. Not yet.

“And Nanny?” he asks.

“Nanny is fine,” she says firmly. “She was worried sick, of course, but that’s because her charge had wandered off, not because she thought you had done anything wrong. In fact, she was relieved to know George had been safe with you all this time.”

“She was?” he asks, ready to cry with relief.

Phyllis nods. “Of course. There’s no safer place for him to be.”

Thomas sniffs, and returns to his reclining position amidst all of his pillows. She draws his duvet up around his shoulders, tucks it around him, then closes the book, and places it on his night table. After a moment, she says, “You did a fine job today. Truly.”

He gives her a half smile. “At what? Staying awake for more than six hours at a stretch?”

She looks away for a second. “If you think of that as an accomplishment, then yes.” Now she looks back at him. “But I mean how you... You were so brave, Thomas. You handled yourself with such grace.” She brushes his hair off of his forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

He licks his lips. “Well,” he begins. “I’m actually… a little proud of me, too. First time in a long time.”

She smiles.

“Not for working half a day,” he says, with a bit of an eye roll.

“Why, then?”

“For… letting you help me. Letting all of you help me. Daisy made sure I had Mr. Branson’s coffee. You got me up the stairs— _again._ Mr. Bates helped me get _dressed_. And I don’t… feel so terrible about it.” He shakes his head, still wondering at the intimate conversation he had with Bates that morning. At how protected, and secure, he had felt. He looks her in the eye. “I feel _safe_ ,” he says.

She begins to cry. Thomas feels a tear escape each of his eyes as well, and slide down his cheeks. Phyllis wipes them away with her thumbs, as she has done countless times in recent days. This time is different, though.

“As far as I am concerned,” she says, “there is no greater accomplishment than that.”

And this time, when she leans forward and kisses his forehead, he reaches for her, wraps his arms around her, and hugs her back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the grocer was a disappointment. I thought it would be funny to have a bit of a teaser, then just have Thomas and Mrs. Patmore both intuitively find the guy annoying for the same reasons.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been quite a week... thank you to all of you who read, commented, and kudos-ed this one. I've never written one this long, or posted every day like this, and I truly appreciate your support. Hope you enjoy this last chapter!

Thomas works exactly six half days. On the seventh day, Lord and Lady Grantham host the dowager countess, Lord and Lady Merton, and Dr. Clarkson for dinner—in an effort to smooth over any lingering ugly feelings over the business at the hospital—and though Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot are still away on their honeymoon, this is a large enough party that Thomas is needed to help serve that evening. And even if it isn’t, who would want to miss Lady Grantham’s perfectly executed charm in a situation like that?

Since he is going to serve dinner, he feels he might as well work the afternoon as well, and skips his usual nap after the family’s luncheon. He serves the family’s tea in the library, then manages to stay awake during the servants’ tea.

At the end of the evening, once all the guests have left (no one having been murdered, sacked, divorced, or disowned), Thomas returns to his room, drained, but not entirely weakened. He changes out of his livery, washes his face, and lies down on his bed. As he looks up at his ceiling, he is pleased to realize that what was once a constant and meaningless exhaustion has given way to a satisfying sleepiness at the end of his day. He has done his part. He has served this fine house, and all of the people who call it their home. And still he feels safe.

He turns to his side, pulls his blue silk duvet up around his shoulders, and falls asleep.

***

**August**

Thomas returns to his room after yet another long day, ready to go to bed. He has started a new book, and wonders if he will be able to get through a page before he falls asleep. Once he steps inside his room, though, he stops short. There is something different.

He closes his door, and looks again at his bed; a walking stick that looks vaguely familiar is leaning against his mattress. Who has been in his room? And why would someone leave him a walking stick?

He walks up to it slowly, makes a half circle around it, inspecting it fully before picking it up. There is no note with it. Nothing else in his room is amiss. He wraps his right hand around its handle, and connects its end with the floor. He leans into it a little. Interesting.

On his way home from the village that afternoon, he had gotten a little tired, so had stopped near the cottages to rest for a bit. He hadn’t minded at all; he had sat on a low stone wall, in the full sun, and warmed himself for a few minutes before continuing on to the abbey. But perhaps he wouldn’t have got so tired if he’d had a stick like this. It isn’t as though he is stooped over—far from it—or has a limp, or anything. He wouldn’t need it all the time. But maybe he’ll use it when he ventures into the village, or if he were to go for a walk on the estate on his half day.

Interesting.

***

The outline of the abbey comes into view as Thomas reaches the crest of a low hill. He stops for a moment to admire his home—how beautiful it is against the endless blue sky, framed by the green trees that surround it. It is the first time he has taken a walk merely for the pleasure of doing so in months. And it is more pleasurable than he remembers. Even if he should have to leave this estate, he will always regard it as the place he first felt safe.

He huffs a little laugh, and continues on toward home.

When he is nearly there, he stops again, and this time turns around to take in the view that has been in his wake. The outline of the abbey against the English countryside is a site to behold, and equally as beautiful are the hills, and trees, and dappled sunlight that surround it. As Thomas takes another moment to absorb all the splendor of the terrain, he hears footsteps approaching him from behind. He does not turn around to see who it is, because his ears can make out the distinct sound of two feet and the tip of a cane on the path.

Mr. Bates stops once he is side by side with Thomas. For a moment the two of them simply look out at the scenic landscape. Then Thomas gives John a sideways glance, and looks down at the other man’s cane, then at his own. He rolls his eyes.

“For God’s sake,” he mutters under his breath.

John looks at him now. “What?” he asks.

Thomas gapes at him. “We look like twin pirates or something. It’s ridiculous.”

John smirks, which quickly turns into a laugh. Thomas laughs with him.

“How are you this fine morning?” Mr. Bates then asks, returning his gaze to the horizon.

Thomas takes a deep breath. “I’m… fine. Actually. I’m really quite fine.”

Mr. Bates gives him another sideways look. “Good,” he says with a smile. “You’ve a letter in the post.”

“Is that what you’ve come out here to tell me?” Thomas asks.

“That, and I was going to tell you the story about how I used to be a pirate. But you probably know that one already.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas says again, though he cannot hide his smile. They turn around, and begin walking toward the house. “Do I actually have a letter, though?”

“Yes,” Mr. Bates says. “Come and open it. I’ve a good feeling about this one.”

Thomas shakes his head, smiles, and follows Mr. Bates home.


End file.
